


Let Sleeping Wolves Lie

by coffeeinallcaps



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banter, Crack, Established Relationship, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:38:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6821437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/pseuds/coffeeinallcaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey,” Stiles says during breakfast the next morning, as Derek lets an omelet slide onto his plate. “You do realize you keep falling asleep right after sex, right?”</p><p>In which Derek's dick is a (metaphorical) snooze button.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Sleeping Wolves Lie

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [on Tumblr](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com/post/79582083744/let-sleeping-wolves-lie) a gazillion years ago. I'm backdating this so that it will show up in my works on the date it was originally posted (March 14, 2014) rather than the day I archived it (May 11, 2016).

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ ,” Stiles gasps out. “That was the best sex of my life.”

Derek doesn’t respond. His forehead is still pressed to Stiles’ collarbone, right where it landed after he went rigid mid-thrust and came with a low, strangled moan.

After a moment’s hesitation, Stiles starts carefully raking his fingers through the bristles of hair at the nape of Derek’s neck. He hopes this isn’t crossing some sort of boundary – you never know with Derek – but Derek doesn’t seem to mind. “Best sex of my _life_ , dude, I’m telling you. You’ve been holding out on me. We should definitely do this again sometime. Wanna do this again sometime?”

Derek kind of hmm-hmms and nestles closer, so Stiles continues, “Didn’t really peg you for a cuddler, to be honest.”

Derek murmurs, “Chopsticks.”

Stiles’ fingers skid to a halt. “Say what now, big guy?”

“Nnnnnmh,” Derek says, shifting a little. Fuck, he’s heavy. “We forgot to bring…” The soft pads of his fingertips slide inertly against Stiles’ sex-damp skin. “Chopsticks.” Derek turns his head and nudges his nose into the hollow of Stiles’ throat with a deep and contented sigh.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, not sure whether to be amused or appalled. “You totally conked out on me, didn’t you?”

 

* * *

 

Derek sleeps like a fucking _log_. What’s more, he falls asleep right after sex. And when Stiles says right after sex, he means _right after sex_. There’s maybe a thirty second window – if he’s being generous – between Derek coming his brains out and Derek being fast asleep underneath, next to or on top of Stiles.

That first time he figured maybe it was because of the whole build-up between them— y’know, the cathartic effect of finally succumbing to months of seemingly unrequited sexual tension. Stiles felt a little wiped out himself. But then it happens the second time as well. And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth.

“Okay,” Stiles says, lying very still as Derek breathes evenly into his ear. “So this is definitely a thing you do. All right, then.”

When Stiles tries to get up to go to the bathroom, Derek grumbles in his sleep, his arm tightening where it’s slung around Stiles’ waist. The movement causes him to realize, with a jolt, that Derek’s still partly inside him.

“Oh my god,” he says. “Oh my god, I’m so fucked.”

Derek exhales loudly.

Stiles spends the next few hours semi-awake and in a state of unbearable arousal, eventually jerking off with Derek’s warm heavy body curled around his back, feeling slightly awkward about it because— he doesn’t know why, exactly. It’s pretty hard to think straight with Derek’s dickhead lodged in his ass, okay?

Of course Derek wakes up when Stiles is almost there, murmurs Stiles’ name and starts thrusting into him, soft careful movements mindful of the small amount of lubrication left, his hand sliding down to wrap around Stiles’ and increase the pace. As his come spills over their entwined fingers, Stiles pants, “Derek, _Derek_ —”

He realizes his mistake when he feels Derek’s choked-back gasp roll across his sweaty skin, feels the burst of wetness inside.

He says, “No, no, Derek, wait, we need to,” but Derek is already sagging against his back.

“Talk,” Stiles concludes with a resigned sigh, wiping his hand on the sheets. He strokes Derek’s wrist absently and listens to the sound of his breathing smooth out and deepen again.

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” Stiles says during breakfast the next morning, as Derek lets an omelet slide onto his plate. “You do realize you keep falling asleep _right_ after sex, right?”

Derek’s already turned back to the stove. “What?” he says, chopping off another square of butter and dropping it into the pan.

“You always fall asleep, like, right after sex,” Stiles says around a scalding mouthful of egg.

“You weren’t complaining about it last night,” Derek says, swirling the pan around. “Or any of the other nights.”

“I’m not complaining,” Stiles says. “I’m communicating. That’s what people do, they communicate. They don’t just hump each other and cook each other breakfast and hope for the best.”

Derek cracks an egg into the pan. “Whatever,” he says. “If you don’t like it, feel free to go have sex with someone else,” and it’s such an incredibly _Derek_ thing to say that Stiles, rather than feeling hurt, feels oddly warm and giddy inside. Which could be due to the fact that he’s still feeling sleep-mussed and well-fucked, or due to the fact that this omelet is really fucking tasty and still way too hot to eat. Or it could be because Derek is growing on him, snark and morning mood and inconvenient sleeping habits and all. The whole package.

“I like having sex with _you_ ,” Stiles says instead of rising to the bait.

At the stove, the hard, drawn-up line of Derek’s naked shoulders relaxes a little. “Good,” Derek says, grabbing the spatula. “I like having sex with you, too.”

And that’s that.

 

* * *

 

It turns out Derek’s sleeping habits aren’t completely inconvenient after all.

“But _Love Actually_ is on,” Stiles says.

“You’ve already seen _Love Actually_ thousands of times, you said it yourself. You even made me watch it two weeks ago. Just let me watch the game.”

“Derek, you’re a werewolf. You’ve got a stubble beard and a leather jacket. You’re already the epitome of manliness, all right, you don’t need to watch baseball to—”

“This has got nothing to do with reaffirming my masculinity, Stiles. I just want to see the fucking game. Besides, it’s my TV.”

“Okay, fine,” Stiles says. “We’ll watch the fucking game.”

He manages five minutes before the boredom becomes overwhelming. “Derek,” he says.

Derek says, “Yeah?”

“Can I blow you while you watch? I haven’t properly thanked you for that mind-blowing rim job in the shower yet.” Stiles waggles his eyebrows.

“You don’t have to—”

“Also,” Stiles says, waving a hand in the direction of the television, “I really couldn’t care less about any of this shit.”

Derek grumbles like he’s opposed to the idea of either blowjobs or people being uninterested in baseball (going by a posteriori knowledge, Stiles thinks it’s safe to assume it’s the latter) but settles deeper into his corner of the couch, spreads his thighs. “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

Ten minutes later, Derek is snoring away with his head on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles pets his hair and changes the channel.

 

* * *

 

Stiles has already gotten Derek’s fly unzipped when he realizes this could totally serve as a scientific experiment.

“Oh god, you were serious,” Derek says, glancing down at Stiles. “Stiles, I’m driving.”

“It’s for science,” Stiles says as he coaxes Derek’s dick up so the head pokes out above the waistband of his boxer briefs. “Keep your eyes on the road.”

Derek does, but he also keeps one hand on the back of Stiles’ head and makes these _noises_ , and Stiles is dangerously close to coming in his pants by the time Derek’s jizz is spurting down his throat.

Stiles tucks Derek back into his underwear, straightens up and wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

“Holy shit,” Derek says. His cheeks are flushed.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, “you’re not too bad at it yourself,” and commences to stare at Derek.

Derek says, “What?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says, looking straight ahead again. He checks his watch; it’s definitely been over thirty seconds.

A minute later, he asks, “Hey, are you… you’re not feeling tired or anything? By any chance?”

Derek gapes at him, open-mouthed. “Are you kidding me? Did you— is that why—”

“I told you it was for science! Christ, dude, watch the fucking road!”

“You’re— fucking hell,” Derek says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You didn’t exactly need to conduct field research to conclude that in _stressful situations_ —”

“Stressful situ— I sucked your dick! You consider that a stressful situation?”

“You sucked my dick while I’m _driving_. You don’t consider that a stressful situation?”

“Well, I.” Stiles feels weirdly affronted. “You’ve got supernatural reflexes! And it’s not like the car’s a manual, I didn’t think—”

“My dick is a fucking _snooze button_ under normal circumstances,” Derek points out.

Stiles sits back in his seat, crosses his arms. “Okay, fine. I apologize for sucking you off against your will, all right?”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek says, looking over at him. “You know that’s not what I— Stiles, come on.”

He reaches out, and Stiles thinks he might be going for his knee or his hand – or, hey, maybe his crotch, reciprocation would be cool, just saying – but instead Derek surprises him by touching his cheek, fingertips brushing warmly against the knobs of his spine. Stiles leans into the touch without thinking.

“I appreciate your blowjobs,” Derek says, overly earnest, and Stiles groans and slaps his hand away but they’re both laughing.

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles says. His heart rate has picked up, for some reason. “Look at us arguing like an old married couple.”

“I’m not sure old married couples typically argue about blowjobs while driving,” Derek says. This time he does reach for Stiles’ hand, and Stiles lets him.

 

* * *

 

Derek’s major declaration of love happens on a Monday night.

“Stiles,” he moans, thrusting harder. “Stiles, I— I—”

He comes with a loud gasp.

“I,” he murmurs, lips grazing against the nape of Stiles’ neck.

“Oh man,” Stiles says. He reaches back to touch Derek’s face. He sighs. “You too, big guy.”

Derek makes a sleepy noise.


End file.
